A Pocketful of Whimsy
by Miasma-Shadow
Summary: The Fool is taking time off from the Circus Troupe and finds himself in a tavern in Tantervale.


Everyone smelled of butterfly poo. Fool sniffed, then his face crinkled in disgust. So many peasants. The place was filthy. He stroked the leg of a kossith and smiled up at him. "I am trying to remove the oxeyness about you. You aren't as handsome as Havvy, is it because you don't have a Fool?" The oxman in question tried to punch Fool but he was too quick, his reflexes had been honed around the enigmatic, fantastic, erratic and spasmatic Ringmaster after all. The Fool skipped off down the street, pinching his nose and pretending to clean like an Orlesian serf. Tantervale had free elves walking around like they owned the place. That was just wrong. Had nobody told them they had ugly knife ears and no Arlathan any more? Maybe he should buy it back for them then they could all live there and not annoy him any more? The Crinkly One and the Big Fire Idiot could wrestle and make screamy sounds all they wanted then and Fool would not have to waste his powders on them any more.

As he skipped he sung, his sweet and melodious voice drawing stares and the odd smile as well. Some of them recognised him but none of them knew him. Lavache was dead after all.

_"I went to the Tourney tomorrow,_  
_And took a front seat at the back._  
_I fell from the pit to the gallery,_  
_And broke a front bone in my back."_

The Fool came to a skidding halt outside of a tavern, "The Marionette" and because he liked puppets he decided this would be a good place to perform. Though this was a special performance, it was not troupe related. This was purely for Lavache. It was about time the Orlesian had an outing.

Slipping into the common room he moved smoothly through the crowd of people, his back rigid and his Hork Hat under his arm. He'd even silenced his bells before he walked in and his eyes were full of cunning and arrogance. He spied a lute and he snatched it up before its pathetic owner even knew it was gone. He would not return it even on pain of death for such an instrument belonged in the hands of a master not someone who was so careless with their tool.

Fool took his rightful place on the little stage and made himself comfortable on the stool. He was a tiny man, pale and dishevelled, but the way he stroked the lute bespoke a grace that was so rarely seen in the taverns of the world. It was reserved for the Courts of Kings.

The strumming got the attention of the room, for the player was unnannounced and unknown. They thought they recognised him but without his hat and his act it was hard to place him. His hair was matted to his head due to the sweat of wearing the hat but apart from that he looked quite at peace. The music he produced was mesmerising, but it was when he began to sing that they were truly captivated.

_"Ichot a burde in boure bryht,_  
_That fully semly is on syht,_  
_Menskful maiden of myht;_  
_Feir ant fre to fonde; _

_In al this wurhliche won _  
_A burde of blod ant of bon_  
_Never yete y nuste non_

_Lussomore in londe._  
_Blow northerne wynd!_  
_Send thou me my suetyng! _  
_Blow northerne wynd! blow, blow, blow!_

_With lokkes lefliche ant longe,_  
_With frount ant face feir to fonge, _  
_With murthes monie mote heo monge, _

_That brid so breme in boure._  
_With lossomb eye grete ant gode,_  
_With browen blysfol under hode,_  
_He that reste him on the rode, _

_That leflych lyf honoure._  
_Blow northerne wynd,_

_Hire lure lumes liht,_  
_Ase a launterne a-nyht,_  
_Hire bleo blykyeth so bryht,_  
_So feyr heo is ant fyn._

_A suetly swyre heo hath to holde,_  
_With armes, shuldre ase mon wolde,_  
_Ant fingres feyre for to folde,_

_God wolde hue were myn!_  
_Blow northerne wynd, etc._  
_Heo is coral of godnesse,_  
_Heo is rubie of ryhtfulnesse,_  
_Heo is cristal of clannesse, _

_Ant baner of bealté._  
_Heo is lilie of largesse,_  
_Heo is parvenke of prouesse,_  
_Heo is solsecle of suetnesse,_

_Ant lady of lealté._  
_For hire love y carke ant care,_  
_For hire love y droupne ant dare, _  
_For hire love my blisse is bare_

_Ant al ich waxe won._  
_For hire love in slep y slake,_  
_For hire love al nyht ich wake,_  
_For hire love mournynge y make_

_More then eny mon._  
_Blow northerne wynd!_  
_Send thou me my suetyng!_  
_Blow northerne wynd! blou, blou, blou!"_

Upon singing the final word his hand stilled the strings and silenced the room, Fool staring blankly at the floor.

His lips moved silently, quickly, his expression going from one of serenity to fear. Suddenly he looked up and stared at the room and frowned.

"Where is Havelock? Why am I alone?"


End file.
